Page 12 of Outside the Room (Isla Rivers #1)

Diana Pearce's office was unnervingly quiet when they arrived. The door stood slightly ajar, interior lights still on despite the late morning hour. Isla noticed Sullivan's hand move instinctively toward his weapon as they approached.

"Diana?" Sullivan called, pushing the door open further with his foot. "It's Agent Sullivan. You here?"

Silence greeted them. Sullivan exchanged a glance with Isla before they both drew their weapons and entered the office using standard clearing procedure.

The room told its own story. An overturned chair lay on its side near the desk. Papers were scattered across the floor, many bearing the distinctive format of shipping manifests. A coffee mug had been knocked over, its contents long since dried into a dark stain on several documents.

"Signs of a struggle," Isla observed, holstering her weapon after confirming the room was empty. She moved methodically around the space, her trained eye cataloging details. "Look at the desk. These drawers were searched."

Sullivan nodded grimly, his jaw tightening as he surveyed the chaos.

He'd spoken with Diana just yesterday, had seen her determined to help solve Marcus's murder.

Now she was missing, and the devastation in her office told a story he didn't want to believe.

"Whatever she found in those manifests, someone wanted it badly enough to come after her. "

Isla crouched to examine the scattered papers, careful not to disturb potential evidence. "Most of these are routine shipping documents, but there's a system to how they're arranged. She was organizing them by company, then by date."

"She was looking for patterns," Sullivan said. "Just like Whitman."

Isla stood, moving toward the doorway. She paused, noticing something on the hallway floor outside the office. "Sullivan, look at this."

He joined her, following her gaze to the industrial carpet. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss, but as Isla pointed, he saw what she had noticed—faint but distinct scuff marks leading away from the office.

"Someone being dragged," Sullivan said quietly. "Heels digging in."

A cold feeling settled in Isla's stomach. "We need to see the security footage."

***

The port authority's security system proved disappointingly limited. Cameras covered the main entrances and the parking areas, but many interior hallways—including the one outside Pearce's office—weren't monitored.

"Budget cuts," the security manager explained apologetically. "We prioritized external access points."

He pulled up the footage from the previous evening, and they watched as Pearce arrived for her shift, then stayed well past normal hours.

The last image of her showed her returning from the break room with a fresh cup of coffee around eleven-thirty p.m. After that, nothing—just empty hallways and darkened offices.

"No sign of anyone unusual entering the building?" Isla asked.

The manager shook his head. "Just the night security guard making his rounds, and he didn't report anything strange."

"We need to talk to him," Sullivan said.

"He's off today. I can call him in if you want."

"Do it," Sullivan replied. "And we need a list of everyone who accessed the building last night, including cleaning staff, late workers, anyone."

As the manager hurried to coordinate these requests, Isla felt the familiar weight of a case spiraling beyond their control.

The missing footage, the systematic elimination of evidence—it reminded her too much of Miami, of arriving at crime scenes where crucial pieces had already been swept away.

She moved to the window overlooking the vast container yard, watching as dock workers continued their routine operations, oblivious to the drama unfolding in the administrative building above them.

Hundreds of shipping containers were stacked in neat rows, waiting to be loaded onto vessels or transported inland. A terrible suspicion formed in her mind as she stared at the massive steel boxes, each one large enough to hide terrible secrets.

"Sullivan," she said without turning around. "When was the last time anyone physically saw Diana Pearce?"

She heard him grow still behind her, the same realization clearly dawning. "Yesterday."

"What if the killer is using the same method?" she asked, turning to face him. "What if Pearce is in one of those containers?"

Sullivan was already reaching for his phone. "We need to organize a search. Every locked container in the port."

"That's hundreds of containers," the security manager protested, overhearing their conversation.

"Then we need more people," Sullivan replied, his tone brooking no argument. "Call in every available port authority employee. I'll request backup from local PD and the field office."

***

The transition from investigation to full-scale search operation moved with the controlled chaos of a major emergency response.

Within the hour, the port had transformed into a hive of coordinated activity as teams spread across the massive container yard.

Radio chatter filled the air as search teams reported their progress, the systematic checking of locks creating a percussion of metal against metal that echoed across the harbor.

Isla coordinated from a central position near the port authority building, directing resources as Sullivan liaised with the growing number of agencies now involved.

Already, she could see the economic impact of their operation—three cargo vessels sat at anchor beyond the harbor, unable to dock while the search continued.

The massive cranes that normally loaded and unloaded containers stood motionless, their operators reassigned to the search effort.

The afternoon light was already fading—winter days were brutally short this far north—when a radio call came through.

"Agents Rivers and Sullivan, we've got something in section E-7. Container with non-standard lock, just like the Whitman scene."

Sullivan caught Isla's eye across the makeshift command center they'd established. Neither needed to speak the grim possibility aloud.

They arrived at the container minutes later. A port authority worker stood nearby, his face pale beneath his beard. "Found it during the systematic check. Lock doesn't match standard inventory."

Sullivan nodded to the waiting technicians. "Cut it open."

The grinding sound of metal cutting through metal echoed across the yard, unnaturally loud in the gathering twilight.

Isla braced herself, already suspecting what they would find but hoping desperately to be wrong.

As the portable lights cast harsh shadows between the container stacks, she couldn't shake the feeling that they were being watched—that somewhere in this maze of steel and concrete, the killer might be observing their discovery.

The lock fell away, and two officers pulled the heavy container door open. The beam of Sullivan's flashlight cut through the darkness inside, illuminating a scene that confirmed their worst fears.

Diana Pearce lay on the container floor, her body already stiffening in the cold. Like Whitman, she had a massive head wound, but unlike him, her body showed signs of a violent struggle—defensive wounds on her hands, bruising around her throat, clothing torn in places.

Isla felt the breath leave her lungs as she stared at the scene.

Another woman, another life cut short by someone's greed or desperation.

For a moment, she was back in Miami, staring at Alicia Mendez's broken body, feeling the crushing weight of arriving too late.

The familiar guilt clawed at her chest—if they'd moved faster, been smarter, could they have saved Diana?

"She fought back," Isla said quietly, stepping carefully into the container, forcing herself into professional mode despite the personal pain. "Much harder than Whitman did."

Sullivan remained in the doorway, his expression grim as he processed not just the crime scene but the personal loss.

Diana had been more than a contact—she'd been someone he'd worked with for years, someone who'd trusted him with information about the case.

The weight of that trust, now forever broken, settled heavily on his shoulders.

"She knew what was coming. Whitman was caught by surprise. "

Isla crouched beside Pearce's body, noting the absence of a purse or phone. "No personal effects. And no sign of the manifests she was reviewing."

"This confirms it wasn't Bradley or any of his crew," Sullivan said, his voice rougher than usual. "He was already in custody when this happened, and so were they."

Isla stood, her mind racing with implications. "Someone killed her to silence her. She found something in those manifests—something connected to Whitman's death."

"And now those manifests are gone," Sullivan added. "Whoever did this is systematically eliminating both witnesses and evidence."

They stepped back to allow the medical examiner access to the body.

As technicians began processing the scene with practiced efficiency, Isla moved away slightly, needing a moment to process what they'd found.

The emergency lights created an otherworldly atmosphere in the container yard, casting deep shadows between the towering steel boxes while transforming the familiar industrial landscape into something alien and threatening.

Two people were murdered in the same distinctive way within days of each other. Both customs workers investigating shipping discrepancies. Both bodies hidden in containers. The killer was following a pattern, which meant they might strike again if anyone else started asking the wrong questions.

"We need to protect the remaining customs staff," she said when Sullivan joined her. "Anybody who worked closely with Whitman or Pearce could be at risk."

He nodded, already on his phone arranging security details.

When he finished the call, his expression was troubled.

"The field office is sending additional agents, but this just became much bigger than a local investigation.

Two federal employees murdered in similar circumstances triggers protocols. "

"Meaning?"

"Meaning the FBI will be taking over port security until further notice. Customs operations continue but under our direct supervision."

Isla considered the implications. "That will slow down legitimate shipping and create economic pressure to resolve this quickly."

"Exactly," Sullivan agreed. "We'll start getting calls from politicians and business interests within hours. The port of Duluth handles over thirty million in goods daily. Every hour of disruption costs millions and affects shipping schedules across the Great Lakes."

The weight of the investigation settled more heavily on Isla's shoulders. Two murders, a smuggling operation, missing evidence, and now economic pressure that would only increase as their investigation continued.

As they walked back toward the command center, Isla spotted a port worker she recognized from earlier interviews—an older man who had worked alongside Whitman for years. He was staring at the container where Pearce's body had been found, his expression a mix of horror and grief.

"They were friends," the man said when he noticed Isla watching him. "Diana and Marcus. Always looking out for each other." He shook his head slowly. "Whatever they found, I hope it was worth dying for."

Isla wished she could offer comfort, but platitudes felt hollow in the face of such deliberate violence. Instead, she simply nodded, acknowledging his grief while silently renewing her determination to find whoever was responsible.

As full darkness settled over the port, additional lights were brought in to illuminate the ongoing evidence collection.

The harsh white beams transformed the container yard into a surreal landscape where massive ships became looming shadows against the star-filled sky, and the endless rows of containers stretched like a metallic city under siege.

The temperature was dropping rapidly, turning their breath into visible clouds that caught and scattered the emergency lighting.

Isla stood at the perimeter, watching the methodical work of the technicians against this distinctive backdrop of industrial winter.

Somewhere in this frozen port was a killer who had now struck twice.

Someone with access, knowledge, and the cold calculation to eliminate anyone who threatened their operation.

The missing manifests held the key—documentation that connected Whitman and Pearce to whatever illicit activity they had uncovered.

Without those manifests, Isla and Sullivan would need to reconstruct the victims' investigations from scratch, identifying what they had found that was worth killing for. And they would need to do it quickly before the killer struck again.